


Mad Dogs and Englishmen

by JJJunky



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-28
Updated: 2012-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:21:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJJunky/pseuds/JJJunky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie and Doyle go after a terrorist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad Dogs and Englishmen

Mad Dogs and Englishmen  
By JJJunky

 

Smoke and dust stung his eyes as Doyle made his way through the tangle of taxicabs blocking the entrance to the railway station. On the street behind him, a young constable was frantically working to clear the area for the fire trucks and ambulances. The distinctive sirens rang above the din of the busy London streets marking their passage.

A handkerchief pressed against his nose and mouth to ease his breathing, Doyle followed his partner into the rubble that had once been Liverpool Street Station. A bomb set to go off in the middle of the morning rush hour had turned the terminal into a scene reminiscent of the Blitz. Small fires burned throughout the vast underground station creating a suffocating smoke. The dense gray clouds enshrouded the victims of the blast hampering rescue efforts. Doyle couldn't remember ever having witnessed a disaster of such magnitude. Tears of anger and frustration rinsed the grit from his eyes. He felt helplessly inadequate to be of assistance to the multitude of casualties. As his partner bent down to clear debris from an elderly gentlemen's face, all Doyle could do was stand and watch. His response to the unexpected summons from his R/T was of a man desperately needing an escape from the impotence of his inability to ease the suffering surrounding him.

"Alpha to 4.5."

His voice muffled by the handkerchief, Doyle replied, "4.5 here."

"Murphy and Jax have been dispatched to your location and should be arriving shortly," Cowley's voice crackled across the line.

Noting that the ambulances had finally started to arrive, Doyle acknowledged, "We could use the help. It's a real mess here."

"Negative, 4.5," Cowley corrected, "they are to replace you, not assist. I want you and 3.7 to meet me at Gatwick immediately."

"The airport?" Doyle's surprised response sounded inane even to himself.

"It was an airport yesterday," Cowley sarcastically observed. "I imagine it's still an airport today."

"Where are we going?" asked Doyle glad that neither Bodie nor his superior could see his embarrassment.

"We will play twenty questions later, 4.5," growled Cowley. "The order did specify immediately."

Mentally flinching away from the brusque tone, Doyle quickly conceded, "Yes, sir! We're on our way, sir."

Hoping Cowley's anger would have time to abate in the interval, Doyle crossed to his partner's side. "Bodie, we've been ordered elsewhere."

"What could be more important than finding out who did this?" questioned Bodie, spreading his hands to indicate the destruction.

Smoke penetrated the thin handkerchief making Doyle cough. Shaking his head, he snapped, "How the bloody hell should I know. You can ask the old man when we see him. He's meeting us there."

Stepping carefully around the bodies and the debris, Bodie quietly pointed out, "Wherever we're going it can't be worse than this."

* * * *

Several hours later, Bodie's words haunted Doyle as he leaned over a kitchen sink grateful for once that there hadn't been time for lunch. Even so, muscles contracted painfully on his empty stomach, making him feel nauseous. He wanted to close his eyes, but he knew that it would not block out the horror imprinted in his mind.

The sparse information they had received from their superior as they flew out of Gatwick had not prepared Doyle for what they found on the little farm west of Trimley St. Mary in Suffolk. A young constable, a suggestion of baby fat in his chubby cheeks, met the helicopter in a recently plowed field. The policeman's averted eyes and lack of conversation immediately made Doyle suspicious as he followed their guide to the barn. Though forewarned, he was still unprepared for the sight that greeted them. In the middle of a stall lay the body of a man. His face was unrecognizable, blown away from what appeared to be a single shot to the head. The other stalls harbored the bodies of a dog, a horse, a cow, and her calf. With all three men still reeling from the shock of the carnage, the constable had led them to the house; but had not followed them inside.

His empty stomach in knots, Doyle now understood why. Her skirt only partially covering her mutilated face, a young woman lay half naked on the kitchen floor. An outstretched hand seemed to be beckoning to the occupants of a basket set in a corner near the stove. A bitch and several puppies lay scattered around it, oblivious to her entreaty.

His queasiness finally under control, Doyle pushed back from the sink. Forcing his thoughts away from the bloody scene, he opened the door leading into the rest of the house. Four doors lined the short hallway with a flight of stairs at the end leading up to the second floor. With his gun drawn, Doyle approached the first door. All his caution seemed unnecessary when a small pantry was revealed. Across the hall, an equally vigilant Bodie found a sitting room and a bathroom. His partner smiling encouragingly at him, Doyle opened the last door - and wished he hadn't. In what had obviously been a playroom, two small boys lay among their blood-spattered toys.

Swallowing convulsively, Doyle backed out of the room, practically running his partner down in his haste. Anyone else who looked upon the stormy face would have seen the anger. Doyle only saw the pain.

Almost hating the job that had put him in this place at this time, the curly-haired man hesitantly suggested, "I guess we better check upstairs."

"We'll be sacked if we don't." Bodie's attempt to appear unaffected was almost painful to watch.

His steps heavy, Doyle crossed to the stairs. For once he walked slowly, fear of what they might find robbing him of his normal agility. When he reached the top, three closed doors filled him with dread. He moved to the door on his right at the same time Bodie opened the one on their left.

Doyle was breathing a sigh of relief when Bodie called, "Over here, Ray."

It wasn't the words that warned Doyle the sight wouldn't be pleasant, it was the voice. A few steps were all that was needed to bring a crib into view. Stopping in his tracks, Doyle knew he dared not go any further. "Is it like the others?"

"Do you mean is _she_ ," emphasized Bodie, "dead? Yes, she is."

The dark-haired man's anger was almost tangible. For the first time since they had become partners, Doyle felt fearful. Not of Bodie, but for him. Emotions that were usually sealed behind thick walls had found a crack and were threatening to destroy his friend. A comforting hand placed on a tense shoulder was shaken off.

Trembling slightly, Doyle reluctantly turned his attention to the last door. Behind it, they found the master bedroom, blessedly empty. Across the bed, a quilt of yellow, green, and white perfectly matched the light green walls and pale yellow curtains. The sense of warmth and happiness amplified by the room was engendered in the pictures scattered across a dressing table. Irresistibly drawn to them, Doyle studied the smiling faces. The center photograph was of a young bride and groom. It was flanked on one side by a picture of a proud mother with a newborn in her arms, and on the other by a father with his two small sons on his knees. Nearby, waiting for a frame, the entire family, including the dogs, smiled happily up at him.

Doyle used his anger to fight back the tears. Turning away, he was surprised to see Bodie lifting a spare blanket off the end of the bed. His curiosity aroused, he followed his partner out of the room and down the stairs back to the kitchen.

Carefully avoiding the pools of blood that were slowly drying on the once spotless floor, Bodie gently spread the blanket across the young mother's body. Slightly ashamed that he had not thought of it himself, Doyle appreciated the dignity his partner had restored to the young woman.

Turning his head away from the poignant scene, Cowley gruffly demanded, "What did you find?"

"Two little boys, about three- and four-years-old are dead in a room down the hall," Doyle dully reported.

Bodie's voice was deeper than usual as he addressed his superior. "A baby girl, approximately nine-months-old is in the north room upstairs."

Grateful he was not seeing the picture in his head that had his partner momentarily mesmerized, Doyle angrily demanded, "Why did the bastard have to use dum-dums?"

"Professionals don't leave witnesses, 4.5," growled Cowley, "you know that."

Leaning against the sink, Doyle pointed out, "What kind of witness could a baby be? Or the animals?"

Motioning to the bitch and her dead puppies, Cowley shook his head. "You don't try to understand a mind like this, you try to stop it."

Doyle's eyes were irresistibly drawn to the basket by the flitting hand. Though he would not have thought it possible after what he had already seen, he was shocked. Bodie was kneeling in the pools of blood, gently lifting dead puppies out of the basket and lying them on the floor. "Bodie?"

His normally meticulous appearance marred by the gore that covered his hands and clothes, Bodie rose to his feet. Almost dwarfed in the large hands, a small puppy, mostly black with a patch of white on the back of its neck and chest, whimpered softly. "A survivor, Ray."

Despite the red that stained the white fur on its neck, the puppy appeared to be exactly what Bodie had described. Somehow, the poor thing had defied the odds - and the terrorist - and survived.

"Good work, Lad." Cowley's light praise and gently pat on his agent's shoulder revealed his understanding of the significance of the discovery.

Crossing to his partner's side, Doyle raised his hand to scratch the tiny head, only to have sharp teeth clamp around his finger. Surprised, he cried out before jumping back. "Oi! Mean little bugger, isn't he?"

"She," corrected Bodie, "is probably hungry. Your finger probably looked like a giant teat."

Sticking the wounded appendage in his mouth, Doyle bent slightly and gazed into intelligent blue eyes. Shaking his head, he mumbled, "I don't think she likes me."

"Doesn't that sound just a bit paranoid?" questioned Bodie.

His eyes never breaking their contact, Doyle noted, "It wasn't your finger she tried to amputate."

Doyle was relieved the sudden arrival of a helicopter ended the conversation. But, even as he followed his superior outside, he knew he would never totally leave this farmhouse. There would always be the pictures in his head, as sharp and clear on the day he died as they were today. That was one of the drawbacks to this job. It had created a photograph album he could never lose or destroy, and which had no limits to how large it could grow.

Though his body was bent almost in half to avoid the helicopter blades, the forensic expert's lanky form was clearly distinctive in the crowd of people crawling from the large helicopter. Approaching his colleague, Anderson asked, "What have you got, George?"

As the local constable rejoined them, Cowley explained in quick and concise sentences what they had found on the farm. Despite the terseness of the report, the officer's distress was evident in the way he constantly shifted his feet and the tears clouding the bright hazel eyes. After a quick glance at the house, Cowley turned his attention to the young policeman. "Does that about cover it, Constable?" 

"Derrick," the constable quickly amended. "Mr. Eaton's bicycle is at the train station. That's what brought me out here in the first place."

Interested, Cowley asked, "How do you know it's Mr. Eaton's?'

"The chain had fallen off," explained the officer. "Mr. Eaton could never seem to find the extra pence to get it fixed."

Cowley nodded. "Right, there's a good chance our killer used it to get to the station. So, that's where we'll start. Get on it, Richard."

"Don't get your hopes up, George," cautioned Anderson. "Even if you're right, the killer is obviously a professional. There's probably nothing to find."

"There has to be something, somewhere," growled Cowley, not inclined to accept no for an answer. "I need to know who did this."

As his team split up, some into the barn and the rest into the house, Anderson assured, "We'll do the best we can. You know that, George."

Cowley nodded an acknowledgment before heading for the vacated helicopter. Doyle wished his colleague luck before quickly following. The fresh air had not been able to wash away the pictures that filled his head or the smell of blood that clung to his nostrils. A guilty relief swept over him as he climbed aboard the transport and found an empty seat.

It wasn't until an elbow not-too-gently poked him in the side that he painfully remembered the presence of his partner. Ready to hotly express his opinion of his oafish friend, Doyle stopped when he saw the sleeping puppy in the crook of Bodie's arm. Putting his mouth close to the taller man's ear, Doyle shouted, "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

"Tryin' to hook me seatbelt," Bodie breathlessly replied. His elbow again dug into Doyle's ribs as he tried to use his only free hand to latch the belt.

"I don't mean that, you twit," snapped Doyle leaning over and securing the hook. "What are you doing with the puppy? You should've left it with the constable."

Staring unseeing at the blood staining his hands, Bodie shook his head. "Didn't think of it, did I."

There was no sign of duplicity on the handsome face, but Doyle knew his partner was lying. Bodie could no more have left the puppy behind than he could've left an arm or a leg. Smiling to himself, Doyle sat back in his seat and wondered how Cowley would react to Bodie's new responsibility.

* * * *

Sitting behind his desk, impatiently waiting for his agents to answer his summons, Cowley tapped his fingers, desperately wishing he could release his emotions by pacing. Unfortunately, the activity of the long day had put additional stresses on a leg already throbbing from the old wound. He knew the pain he was already experiencing would only intensify if further abused.

Normally, he could bury his feelings by concentrating on any one of a dozen reports littering his desk. However, the scene at the farmhouse had made any attempt at normalcy impossible. This time he could not escape the horrors of the job in paperwork.

As angry over his reaction as he was at the killer who had caused it, Cowley slapped a file on the desk in front of him. Opening it with a force that tore the manila folder, he started to read the report. In his mind, the pages became splattered with blood, the blood of young parents, the blood of children, and the blood of animals. A knocking at the door finally penetrated his horrified thoughts. Grateful for the interruption, he called, "Come in."

"You wanted to see me?" asked Doyle as he slowly entered the room.

"Aye," Cowley acknowledged rising to his feet. "Your partner was included in those orders. Where is he?"

"I don't know," the uncomfortable agent admitted.

Cowley could feel his face flushing red with anger. Clenching his jaw, he commanded, "Then find him!"

"I'm found," announced an unrepentant Bodie as he walked briskly into the office.

Words were organized into logical order as Cowley opened his mouth to berate his subordinate for his tardiness. The sight of a tiny ball of fur nestled against the chest of his redoubtable agent drove the lecture from his mind. Pointing a slightly shaking finger, he demanded, "What is that?"

"A puppy, sir," Bodie uneasily confessed.

Flushed cheeks visibly displayed Cowley's displeasure at the response. "What is it doing here?"

"I was just leaving the doc when I received your summons, sir," explained Bodie. "I couldn't find anyone to take here on my way up."

"I'm not surprised," Doyle muttered, wiggling a slightly swollen finger.

Ignoring the remark, Cowley regarded his dark-haired agent in exasperation. "What exactly do you plan to do with it?"

"Find her a good home," Bodie firmly stated. "After all she's been through, she deserves that."

Reminded of the sense of wonder he had felt at the puppy's discovery, Cowley's anger evaporated. "Aye, Lad, that she does."

Encouraged by his superior's acceptance, Doyle asked, "Was she hurt very bad?"

"Doc says he's not a veterinarian, but from what he could see the bullet only creased her neck." A finger gently scratching behind a tiny ear, Bodie noted, "She was real lucky."

"Then what happened to her tail?" a puzzled Doyle demanded, noticing the little stub that was wagging so hard the entire body was in motion.

"I'll have to take her to a vet to be sure, but Doc thinks she's an Australian Shepherd," Bodie expounded. "Most of the breed are born without tails."

Suddenly realizing that he had allowed himself to become distracted, Cowley loudly cleared his throat. "Now that we've got that all straightened out, shall we focus our attention on something that's a little more important?"

"Yes, sir, sorry, sir," Bodie quickly apologized.

"Then put that puppy down and come over here," ordered Cowley spreading a map across the top of his desk.

Bodie's eyes strayed to the puppy before nervously focusing on his superior, "Sir, I don't think it's--"

"Now, Bodie!" roared Cowley interrupting his agent's protest.

When a beseeching gaze failed to incorporate his partner's aid, Bodie reluctantly obeyed. "Yes, sir."

Despite his impatience, Cowley's eyes were drawn to the tiny black and white ball of fluff waddling slowly behind his agent. His fascination turned to disbelief when he noticed a dark, obviously wet, stain trailing behind the puppy. "Bodie!"

The trail continued as the puppy happily followed her friend. Galvanized into action, as much by his partner's apparent enjoyment as by Cowley's displeasure, Bodie put his hands around the rotund stomach and carried his charge across to the waste bin. In his wake, small, dark spots marked the once light grey carpet. Staring uncertainly at the soiled rug, Bodie hesitantly offered, "I'll clean it, sir."

"As much as I would enjoy viewing your performance as a char," Cowley angrily refused, "I have more important things for you to do."

His smile vanishing, Doyle eagerly inquired, "There's been a break in the case?"

"There has," acknowledged Cowley resolutely ignoring Bodie's awkward attempts as the puppy's nanny. "Anderson found a fingerprint on the bicycle chain."

Absently cradling the puppy in his arm again Bodie asked, "Anybody we know?"

"Harti Schranz," said Cowley throwing a picture on the desk where both men could get a good look at it. "Last known association was with the Myer-Helmut group."

Cowley's eyes studied his dark-haired agent for signs of distress. Franz Myer and his followers had been responsible for the death of a vicar, and had almost killed Bodie, his girlfriend, and the vicar's housekeeper before they were permanently stopped. Bodie's free hand slowly opened and closed, but it was his only visible reaction to the announcement.

"While we can link Schranz to the deaths at the farmhouse," stated Doyle, carefully studying the photograph, "is there any evidence showing that he's responsible for the bombing at Liverpool Street Station?"

"I know that he is." Putting a hand to his stomach, Cowley justified, "I know it in here. They found the bicycle at the railway station in Trimley St. Mary. It's the only stop on the line between Felixstowe and Ipswich."

His eyes studying the map that detailed the British Rail system, Bodie observed, "The Ipswich line terminates at Liverpool Street Station."

"Very good, 3.7." Cowley smiled. "We may make a detective out of you yet."

"Schranz was using the farmhouse as a hideout while he waited, probably for the explosives," Bodie speculated, speaking his thoughts out loud.

Doyle carefully studied the map before shaking his head. "But why did he pick Trimley St. Mary to wait?"

Running his finger along the red line from Ipswich to Trimley St. Mary, Bodie stopped where the line ended at the North Sea. "My guess is partially because of the relative isolation of the farm, but mainly because of its proximity to Felixstowe."

Puzzlement was clearly apparent on Doyle's face as Cowley elucidated, "If Schranz made all his connections, he would've reached the Felixstowe Docks by 11:15. A passenger ship sailed for Hoek van Holland at 11:25. The next departed for Skagen, Denmark at 11:35. Another passenger ship didn't sail until 13:10."

Obviously enlightened, Doyle nodded. "We had the airports covered before the dust had settled at Liverpool Street, but the docks are harder to secure."

"According to the BR authorities," Cowley put his glasses on as he read from a report, "all trains for Ipswich, before the bombing and Felixstowe departed and arrived on schedule."

"Which means our man's in the Netherlands or Denmark," Doyle surmised.

Opening the top drawer of his desk, Cowley pulled out two plane tickets. Handing one to Doyle, he said, "Your plane leaves for Amsterdam in two hours." Giving the other folder to Bodie, he observed, "You leave for Skagen in less than an hour. The authorities in both countries have been notified and have offered their cooperation."

"Yes, sir." Without even glancing at the voucher, Bodie started to walk briskly from the office.

"Bodie," called Cowley, halting his agent's determined advance. "I think you might have a little trouble with immigration."

His gaze shifting first to Doyle before settling on Cowley, Bodie questioned, "Sir?"

"The puppy," explained Cowley, pointing to the ball of fur cradled in the strong arm.

Embarrassment quickly changed to concern as Bodie eyed his little charge. "Ray could you--"

"Not me, mate, I don't think she likes me," interrupted the curly-haired agent. "Besides, I'm leaving, too, remember."

Touched by the fear and sadness that Bodie was unable to hide behind his walls, Cowley gruffly offered, "I'll see she's taken care of. Now on your bike, Lad, before you miss your flight."

"Yes, sir," Bodie happily agreed, handing a protesting bundle into his superior's arms. "I'll find her a good home as soon as I get back."

As Bodie quickly exited the office, Cowley focused his eyes on Doyle's cheerful countenance. "You're smiling, 4.5."

"No, sir." Quickly wiping the smile from his face, Doyle remembered another time he had been accused of the same crime. "It's that nervous twitch again, sir."

"You better have that seen to," warned Cowley. "A condition like that could get an agent posted to the Outer Hebrides."

Backing out the door, Doyle facetiously agreed, "I'll have it checked as soon as I return from the Netherlands."

"See that you do." As the door closed behind his subordinate, Cowley lifted the whimpering puppy so he could look into her bright blue eyes. "Never let someone know when you're vulnerable. It gives them the upper hand."

* * * *

A whistle blew, announcing the train's eminent departure. Bodie put his hand on the _politimann_ 's shoulder. "Thanks for your help."

The _offiser_ shook his head, speaking in halting English, he reassured, "I am happy to help catch this man. It was very bad thing he did."

"That it was," Bodie absently agreed, the vision of a blood-splattered crib and its small occupant supplanting the busy railway station. The whistle blew again, obliterating the memory.

"You hurry, Mr. Bodie," the Norwegian urged in his rarely-used English.

Bodie took a few steps before turning a worried face to the _politimann_. "I gave you Mr. Cowley's number, didn't I?'

"Yes." The older man smiled and nodded. "At least three times. I call him and my, how you say, counterpane in Oslo when train is gone."

"That's counterpart," Bodie gently corrected before he ran for the slowly departing train. A conductor held the door open for him and assisted his slightly dangerous assent. Breathless but relieved, he leaned out the window and waved his appreciation to the slowly diminishing figure of his most recent assistant.

As the train picked up speed, Bodie stood at the door gazing out the window at the Norwegian countryside, marveling at the lucky chances that had brought him here. He had arrived in Skagen, Denmark to find the local police had already done part of his job for him. Interrogating dockworkers, sailors, and departing passengers, they had gotten a tentative ID from a ticket agent who had sold Schranz passage on a ferry docking first at Stavanger, Norway, before continuing on to Bergen. As far as they could tell, Schranz had not disembarked at Stavanger, so Bodie booked a flight to Bergen. In the city of the seven hills, a taxi driver had felt certain that a fare early that morning had been Harti Schranz. He had taken his passenger to the train station - destination Oslo.

Only mildly concerned over the expense chit he would turn in at the end of the assignment, Bodie allowed himself a moment to relax and enjoy the scenery. After almost twenty-four hours of non-stop traveling and interrogations, he yearned for his bed and a hot, soothing shower. More than anything, he despised the earthy smell that emanated from his unwashed body.

Though desperately tired, he continued to mercilessly follow his prey. The horror they had found in a Suffolk farmhouse did not diminish. Even when he closed his eyes, Bodie knew from experience that he would never shut out the pictures that flashed across his mind. Maybe if he could catch Harti Schranz the specters would stop haunting him.

The features of the face on the photograph Cowley had shown him etched firmly in his memory, Bodie turned away from the window and walked slowly through each car of the train. The handsome features were carefully arranged into an emotionless mask to disguise his quest. Without being obvious, he studied each passenger. He was in no hurry. It would be eight hours before the train arrived in Oslo with only a few stops in between. Once he located Schranz, he would keep his distance while at the same time, never letting the man out of his sight. Once they reached the capital city, the _politi_ , and - hopefully - Doyle would help him apprehend the terrorist.

As the train climbed higher into the mountains, Bodie shivered. He had worn the warmest coat he owned, but it didn't feel like it would be thick enough to combat a late Norwegian fall day. The next eight hours would be uncomfortable.

* * * *

Doyle slammed the car door harder than he intended. But it was better he take his frustrations out on an inanimate object rather than an animate one. Diplomatic relations with the local _politie_ might be shattered forever if he released his temper on one of its officers. His discontent visibly obvious, he followed his local contact into the _politiebureau_ that had become the headquarters for the task force involved in the search for Harti Schranz. Disappointment at failing to locate the terrorist was reflected on every face in the room.

"Mr. Doyle."

Marveling that such a soft-spoken voice issued from such a large man, Doyle turned to confront his Dutch counterpart. Despite the incongruity of his physical appearance and his vocal emanations, Vandameter had earned not only the Englishman's friendship, but also his respect.

The words seeming to whisper from the full lips, Vandameter said, "Mr.Cowley wants you to contact him as soon as possible. You can use the phone in my office."

"Thanks." Doyle nodded his appreciation as he reluctantly entered the cubbyhole that seemed much too small for such a giant of a man.

His movements were slow as he crossed the room to the desk. Sitting in the high-backed chair, he stared at the telephone, wishing he had something positive to report. It wasn't Cowley's anger he dreaded, but rather his disappointment. Resolutely lifting the receiver, he dialed the number.

"Alpha One, here."

Momentarily overwhelmed by his own temerity, Doyle confessed, "4.5 reporting. I'm sorry, sir, we haven't found a trace."

"That's all right," soothed Cowley, the words crackling crisply down the line. "I just received a call from a police officer in Bergen, Norway. They got a positive ID from a taxi driver."

Excitement replacing his earlier unhappiness, Doyle cried, "Then Bodie's caught him?"

"Not quite, 4.5," Cowley calmly contradicted. "Schranz managed to board a train to Oslo before he could be apprehended. According to the police officer, Bodie's on the same train. He'll keep the suspect under surveillance until the train reaches its destination where he will be apprehended."

His initial enthusiasm turning to fear, Doyle demanded, "Who'll be Bodie's backup?"

"The local police…" Doyle felt his apprehension grow until Cowley finished, "…and you. Arrangements have already been made for your flight to Oslo. You have forty-five minutes to get to the airport."

"I'm on my way, sir."

Doyle almost slammed the receiver down in his enthusiasm, only remembering at the last minute whose ear would be ringing if he did so. Though he was glad he had caught himself, he was sure the old man would be understanding - he had been in that farmhouse, too.

* * * *

Bodie reluctantly tore his eyes from the beauty of the landscape. The train was moving at a near snail's pace to give the tourists the opportunity to take pictures of the incredible scenery. At times, Bodie felt like getting out and pushing. Anxious to lock his handcuffs around the wrists of his prey, he reluctantly kept his distance. It was too dangerous to attempt to capture the heavily armed gunman without backup. Too many innocent people had died already from those destructive hands. When Bodie found Schranz, he took a seat at the other end of the car and kept a vigilant watch on the sleeping terrorist.

For three hours, there was no movement from either man. For a split second, Bodie allowed his tired eyes to rest on the soothing view outside the window. When he brought them back to their original position, he found himself staring into gray eyes as unsettling as a spring thunderstorm. Scooting down in his seat, he tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He knew immediately his attempt was in vain. He could see it in those disturbing eyes. Not only had he been spotted, he had also been recognized. When the terrorist's glance lifted to his suitcase in the overhead rack, Bodie rose from his seat and walked slowly down the aisle. He laid his right hand on the Browning holstered on his left shoulder. In deference to the innocent people on the train, he did not pull it.

With a last desperate glance at his suitcase, Schranz rose from his seat and almost ran from the car. Though he was tempted to run after his prey, Bodie forced himself to stay at a walk and simply picked up his pace. Panic could be as dangerous as a loaded weapon.

When he entered the next car, Bodie saw Schranz exiting. Lengthening his strides, the CI5 agent followed. He had just left the car when he felt the train slow even more as it entered a sharp curve. Opening the door of the next car, he was disconcerted when he didn't see a fleeing figure. Closing the door, he crept down the stairs leading to the track. Glancing back down the length of the train, he saw only trees and undisturbed snow.

Returning to his original position, he climbed down the stairs on the far side of the train. This time, a blur of what looked like man-size tracks in the snow crossed from the rails to the tree line.

Long ago, Bodie had learned to trust his instincts even over common sense. No sane man would jump off a moving train into a cold, unfriendly wilderness. But, then again, sanity was not a characteristic generally attributed to terrorists.

When the train began to pick up speed, Bodie realized there was no time left to verify the facts. Trusting his instincts, he jumped from the train. Using his paratrooper training, he bent his knees and rolled as soon as his toes touched the ground. It wasn't until he tried to regain his feet that he realized the bank was steeper than he had originally estimated. His momentum had picked up dangerously when he slammed into a solid object. Excruciating pain in his arm and chest overwhelmed him and he blacked out.

* * * *

Cowley sighed with relief as he replaced the receiver. Doyle was in Oslo ready to assist his partner. In less than two hours, the Bergen train would reach its terminus and another case would be closed.

As he took a deep breath, Cowley realized there was a familiar, though unexpected, odor permeating his office. Exasperated, he flicked on the intercom. "Betty, would you come in here, please?"

The young woman's acknowledgement was still echoing softly through the room when she entered. Her nose crinkled as she stood in front of her boss' desk. "Sir?"

"I seem to have had an unexpected and unsanitary visitor," explained Cowley. "Who is supposed to be on puppy detail right now?"

Reluctantly, Betty admitted, "McCabe, he's still on sick leave with that sprained ankle."

"Then get him in here and have him clean up that mess," ordered Cowley pointing to a small brown pile at the corner of his desk.

"Right away, sir," said Betty hurrying from the room.

Feeling a slight weight on his foot, Cowley glanced down to see Bodie's puppy playing with his shoelaces. Idly wondering how long she had been in his office, he indulgently watched her play. He didn't even wince when she untied his shoe. Soon tiring of the activity, she curled up next to his foot and went to sleep.

This wasn't the first time the puppy had managed to escape her guardian. Though she seemed perfectly content when the agents and staff stopped to pet or cuddle her, whenever she got the chance to escape, she took it. The strange thing was she could always be found in the same place - Cowley's office, causing embarrassment to the limited duty agent assigned to care for her.

The little body jumped at the loud knocking on the door. Wiping the indulgent smile from his face, Cowley called, "Come in."

His features glowing with a bright red, McCabe sheepishly limped into the room. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know how she got away from me this time."

"It looks as though a session with Macklin would do you some good, 9.6," observed Cowley.

As he bent over to pick up the smelly pile, McCabe's already unhappy face dropped. "Whatever you say, sir."

"It bodes ill for an organization when its agents can't even keep track of a tiny puppy," Cowley amplified, secretly enjoying McCabe's discomfort.

"Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir." Holding his smelly bundle at arm's length, McCabe assured, "I won't have any more trouble, sir."

As the agent bent down to pick up the puppy, Cowley put a hand on his arm. "The only way you can keep that promise is to leave the puppy where she is."

Straightening, McCabe regarded his superior in confusion. "Sir?"

"Leave the puppy where she is," ordered Cowley as he watched the tiny ball of fur curl up next to his foot and fall back asleep. "Just put some newspaper at the end of the desk. I'll call you when I need you."

"Yes, sir." Limping out of the room the agent acknowledged his reprieve. "Thank you, sir."

Careful not to move his foot, Cowley turned his attention back to the report laying open on his desk. He sighed contentedly, the warmth from the little body seemed to permeate his very being, soothing his troubled thoughts. It was unfortunate she seemed to have a urinary problem.

* * * *

As he slowly opened his eyes, Bodie drew back in fear at the darkness that greeted him. It wasn't until his gaze shifted upward and his blurry vision encountered the bright starry sky that he realized he wasn't blind as he had at first believed.

Cold penetrated his jacket, numbing the pain from his arm and chest. Realizing he could die in the rapidly cooling air if he didn't find shelter, Bodie slowly sat up. Resolutely ignoring the nausea twisting his stomach and the dizziness impairing his vision, he rose to his feet. On unsteady legs, he gingerly walked deeper into the forest looking for a bush or tree with branches low enough to the ground that could act as a barrier against the cold wind.

Just as he despaired of ever finding shelter, he stumbled and fell to his knees. The jarring impact shattered the numbness that had made it possible for him to endure the pain of his broken body. He cried out, the agony pulling at his consciousness. It was then, when his mind threatened to escape its torment, he saw the tree. It was a young tree, almost bent in half by the strength of its neighbors.

Deliberately recalling the mental pictures he had made of the horrors that had been revealed in the Suffolk farmhouse, Bodie leaned on the strength of his anger and regained his feet.

It took all his limited strength to push through the branches to the sanctuary the base offered. Perspiration dotted his brow before he finally achieved his goal. Sinking to the ground, he tried to slow his breathing. Each ragged breath added to the fire burning in his chest.

Now that he was relatively safe from the elements that could destroy him, he allowed himself to relax. His mouth was dry and he desperately wished he had swallowed a mouthful of snow before entering his refuge. However, his thirst wasn't great enough to entice him to renew his battle with the branches. He needed to save what strength he had left, and rest to regain some he had lost. In the morning, he would follow the trail he had seen on the train. Nothing would prevent him from apprehending Schranz, not even a broken arm or some cracked ribs. What they had found in the farmhouse would never be repeated.

* * * *

Doyle yawned as he absently studied the faces of the rushing humanity that seemed to be a by-product of all railway stations. It wasn't interest that kept his blurry eyes scanning the crowds, it was training. There was always a possibility that Schranz was to be met by an accomplice. Even as he made his casual search, he was aware the two officers assigned to assist him were doing the same.

At first, the Englishman had been bitterly disappointed only two officers had been detailed, but he understood and sympathized with the Chief Constable's dilemma. The President of the United States was spending the day in the Norwegian capital. Every officer was needed for escort or crowd control.

Though they were few in number, Doyle quickly realized the two officers were above average in intelligence and ability. If they had been English, both would be candidates for CI5. Maureen Strom was a petite young woman about Doyle's own age. Her reddish-blond hair hinted at a temper that Doyle, so far, had only glimpsed in her eyes. Dum-dums, and the damage they could inflict, translated into any language. 

Niels Johan towered over his partner. Despite his superior size, he would quickly defer to the slightly older woman. His trust and respect shone in the deep blue eyes.

Between the three of them - and Bodie - Doyle knew Schranz had met his match. All that remained was completing the forms for extradition; something that couldn't be accomplished until the terrorist had been apprehended. Despite his confidence, Doyle shuddered when a cold chill traveled up his spine. Blaming it on his exhaustion, he buried his apprehension.

"There's the train," said Maureen, pointing to a locomotive moving slowly down the track.

Positioning themselves on either side of the exit gate, the officers anxiously scanned the departing passengers. As the crowd thinned, Doyle felt his worry grow. Approaching one of the conductors who trailed the crowd, he asked, "Is there anyone left on board?"

"I wouldn't be able to leave if there were," the man helpfully replied.

His hand shaking slightly, Doyle pulled two photographs from his pocket and turned them towards the conductor. "Did you see either of these two men on this trip?"

Carefully studying both pictures, the conductor finally pointed to the one of Bodie. "He almost missed the train in Bergen. The other man could've been a passenger, but I don't recognize him."

"Is it possible the man disembarked at one of the stops?" Maureen inquired.

"I would've notice them," said the conductor, shaking his head. "We only made two stops. One person got off on the first and none on the second."

Lines etched deeply on his tired face, Doyle suggested, "Is it possible they got off without you noticing?"

"Anything is possible," the conductor agreed.

"What do you think we should do now?" asked Niels turning his attention to the Englishman.

Rubbing his hand across his eyes, Doyle muttered, "It doesn't make sense. The only reason Bodie would get off the train is if Schranz did."

Amid the rush of people surrounding him, Doyle stood staring at the train without seeing it. Where could two grown men disappear in a crowded train? Somewhere there had to be an answer to his question. The only possibility that presented itself was the monolith sitting before him. Noticing the workmen converging on the train, Doyle grabbed Maureen's arm. "Stop them, don't let them clean up until we've had a chance to search it."

"Stopp!"Maureen shouted. Holding up her badge, she explained,"Politi."

While Niels rushed over to sooth the agitated crew, Doyle and Strom boarded the nearest car. Not totally certain what they were looking for, they each took one side of the train and checked every seat and luggage rack.

Eight cars later, Doyle disgustedly regarded the filth coating his hands. How could so few people cause so much waste? His fingers were so tacky, paper was beginning to stick to them.

"Doyle, over here."

Maureen's quiet command spoke volumes to the CI5 man. Despite the apparent innocence of the scene, he moved with caution. In their profession, one mistake could be one too many. "What have you got?"

"A small suitcase," replied Strom, pointing to the luggage rack above her head.

Like the detective, Doyle wasn't taking the seemingly inoffensive case for granted. "Get everyone out of the area."

"All right," Maureen reluctantly agreed. "Do you want me to call the bomb squad?"

"One way or another, they wouldn't make it on time," vetoed Doyle. "If it's a bomb, it'll be set to go off soon. That's the way Schranz works."

The Norwegian detective had barely exited the car when Doyle started to carefully lift the piece out of the rack. Placing it gently on a seat, he paused to take a deep breath and to wipe the sweat from his brow. Gingerly, he inspected the outside of the suitcase with his fingertips. When no wires were encountered, he threw caution to the wind and flipped the latch. Despite his bravado, he flinched waiting for a reaction. He dared to breathe only when his expectations were unfulfilled. With a renewed confidence, he lifted the lid.

Doyle knew he would've felt embarrassed, but relieved if his "bomb" had been full of lingerie. What he hadn't anticipated was a gun. Judging by the ammunition next to the weapon, it was the gun that had caused such havoc in the Suffolk countryside. Why had Schranz left it behind?

* * * *

His vision blurred, words ran together making it impossible to read them. Taking off his glasses, Cowley tried to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. Even as he did, he knew the gesture was in vain. Only sleep, real sleep in a bed, rather than the little catnaps he indulged himself with in his office chair, would rejuvenate his senses.

Shifting cautiously, he tried to get in a more comfortable position in the hard chair. His caution was in deference to the tiny puppy snuggled next to his foot. Though she had become a favorite, particularly among the computer operators and the research staff who vied for the honor of walking her on their breaks and lunch hours, the puppy always returned to Cowley's office. No one tried to keep her out anymore.

A loud knock at the door aroused both occupants. Cowley wasn't surprised when the puppy rose to her feet and rounded the desk. As soon as she could see the door, she would stop and wait for whoever was on the other side to enter. Almost as soon as they did so, she would return to her original position beneath the desk.

At first, Cowley had been puzzled by this routine. Eventually, he realized she was looking for something or someone. The logical person was the murdered farmer or his wife. It wasn't until recently that he surmised it was Bodie for whom she was waiting.

As she stood at the end of the desk, the little stub of a tail wagging in anticipation, Cowley regretted the disappointment he knew he was about to inflict. "Come in."

Dust covering his normally immaculate attire, Murphy entered the office. "Here's the report you wanted on the bombing at Liverpool Street Station, sir."

"I know I said right away, Murphy," Cowley replied, eyeing the man's condition, "but, you could've taken the time to clean up."

"No, sir, I couldn't." Beneath the dirt, the handsome face paled. "I didn't want to forget a single detail."

Familiar with the internal agony his agent was experiencing, Cowley softly questioned, "What was the final count?'

"One hundred and fifteen dead, three hundred and seventy injured." Rubbing his face with a dirty hand, Murphy demanded, "Why did the bastard have to set the thing to go off at rush hour?"

"Because those weren't innocent victims to him. They were pawns for a game he's playing," said Cowley, rising to his feet and crossing to the liquor cabinet.

His mind still seeing the death and destruction he had witnessed a short time before, Murphy mumbled, "I hope he loses."

"That's what CI5 was created to ensure," reminded Cowley, pouring scotch into two glasses. Limping over to the distraught agent, he pressed a glass into a shaking hand. "Here, Lad, drink this, it'll take the edge off."

Murphy coughed as the liquor burned a trail down his throat. The once pale face now flushed a bright red; he tried to hide his reaction. "That dust can sure play havoc with your respiratory system."

"Aye, that it can," the older man agreed, his eyes twinkling. "Would ya like another dram to wash a bit more out of your pipes?"

"Thank you, sir, one was fine. I guess I should go take a shower," Murphy hastily pointed out.

"It'll make ya feel like a new man," nodded Cowley, swallowing his own drink in a single gulp.

As Murphy left the office, Cowley crossed to his desk with renewed vigor. Careful where he put his feet, he reopened the report he had pushed aside earlier. Glancing down at the little head that was using his right foot as a pillow, Cowley whispered, "Rest easy, little Jem, your master'll be home soon."

When the strident buzz of the intercom summoned his attention, he gave it grudgingly. "What is it, Betty?" 

"Doyle is on line two and the Minister is on line one," the young woman explained.

Cowley's finger hesitated for only a second before pressing the button that would connect him with Doyle. "Report, 4.5."

The pregnant pause only partially prepared Cowley for the bad news that followed.

"The train arrived in Oslo, but without Bodie or Schranz," Doyle unhappily revealed.

His gaze falling on the small black and white ball curled around his foot, Cowley demanded, "Explain."

"After talking to the conductors, and as many of the passengers as we could locate, it appears as though both men left the train somewhere between Voss and Myrdal."

"While it was moving?" Cowley incredulously inquired.

"Yes, sir," Doyle confirmed. "There are no other stops in that area. It's all wilderness."

"But why?" asked Cowley, not even trying to disguise his puzzlement.

"We won't know that until we find them," admitted Doyle. "A search party is being assembled in Myrdal. I'll be joining them as soon as this conversation is concluded."

"Then on your bike, Lad," urged Cowley. "Report back as soon as you have some news."

"One more thing, sir." The words were barely audible, as though Doyle had been about to hang up the phone. "You might want to send one of the lads down to Heathrow. There'll be a package on the BA324 flight from Oslo."

"What's in it?" asked Cowley as he quickly wrote the flight number on a scratch pad.

"A Heckler and Koch VP70 with enough dum-dums to dramatically decrease the population of the European continent," Doyle triumphantly replied.

His pen poised in mid-air, Cowley's amazement was clearly audible. "You found his gun?"

"He left it on the train," said Doyle, awe coloring his own voice. "The Heckler will be accompanied by Niels Johan, an Oslo detective. He's been a big help to me, sir. Would you see he's well taken care of?"

"Despite certain opinions to the contrary," Cowley growled, "we're not barbarians, 4.5."

"Of course not, sir, sorry," Doyle quickly apologized before hastily adding, "the helicopter's ready, I've got to go."

"Good luck," Cowley called, even as the click of a disconnected line told him his agent hadn't heard.

Replacing the receiver, Cowley hesitated before pressing the button that would connect him with the minister. As he glanced down, his gaze encounter blue eyes that were eerily familiar. Sadness reflected from the tiny orbs, a sensation that Cowley felt in his own soul. What had happened to Bodie?

* * * *

As soon as the first ray of the sun penetrated the dense foliage, Bodie crawled from his shelter. Though he had not slept well, due to the cold and the pain of his injuries, he felt better than he had the night before. There was nothing he could do for his ribs, but he had managed to secure his broken right arm between two buttons of his coat. Thus immobilized, the pain had dulled to a constant, but bearable, throbbing ache.

Even though he realized Schranz had a substantial head start, Bodie walked back to the railroad tracks with a determination that would not recognize defeat. Following the terrorist's trail into the forest, he was encouraged by what he saw. It was obvious Schranz had also been injured when he had made his precipitate departure from the train. The lack of a separation between the imprints of the left foot showed he was dragging it.

Despite a desire to rush after his prey, Bodie set himself an easy pace. In addition to his injuries, he'd had nothing to eat since a quick breakfast of toast and coffee the morning before. To avoid dehydration, he sucked on snow and ice. Neither would be sufficient for an extended period, but, the way Bodie figured it, the cold would kill him before anything else could - except Schranz. Unbidden, the memory of a mutilated baby girl eclipsed the Norwegian wilderness. Even if he was outgunned, Bodie knew he had to continue his quest.

For the first time since he had left London, Bodie found time to entertain his own thoughts, and he wasn't finding them pleasant. Deliberately, he focused on the only bright spot of the entire affair - the puppy. As a child, he had never been allowed to have a pet. Then, when he had left home, he had not had the opportunity. In Africa as a mercenary it hadn't been practical. This was also true of his time as a Para and a member of the SAS. The life he now led in CI5 was his first taste of stability. As he remembered the happy, eager face that had gazed adoringly up at him, Bodie wondered how practical it was for a man with his lifestyle to own a pet. Was he being selfish to want to keep that ray of hope the puppy represented in his life?

Shadows deepened as clouds covered the bright sun. Glancing up, the agent realized a storm was moving in. As though to confirm his prediction, several white flakes drifted slowly to the ground. Against his better judgment, the agent picked up his pace. If the snow covered the tracks, he might never find his prey.

He had taken only a few steps when he stopped. He wasn't sure what alerted him, a sound or instinct, but he knew Schranz was close. Pausing to catch his breath, he pulled out his Browning. Though he was right-handed normally, he could shoot with his left. It was a skill that had saved his life in the past. Glancing periodically on the rapidly disappearing tracks, he searched the trees and bushes for his adversary.

"Hello, Mr. Bodie."

Despite his vigilance, Bodie was surprised by the figure leaning against a tree six feet in front of him. Pointing his gun at the dark shadow, the agent ordered, "Throw down your gun."

"If I had a gun do you think you would still be alive, Mr. Bodie?" Schranz mockingly replied.

Recognizing the truth of the statement, Bodie's ego chose to concentrate on the latter part of the question rather than the former. "How do you know who I am?"

"Would you not find out all you could about the man who killed your family?"

Fearful that somewhere in his checkered past he had committed the same crime for which he hunted Schranz, Bodie demanded, "Where did I do this deed?'

"In your home country - England." Noting Bodie's puzzled frown, Schranz disgustedly snapped, "You don't even remember them."

"Who were they?" Bodie guiltily inquired.

"Obviously they were nobodies to you," the terrorist bitterly observed. "Inge Helmut, Hans Russeheim, Tony Kristo, and Franz Myer."

For a brief moment the snow disappeared as Bodie journeyed back to an old vicarage a few miles outside a small village north of London. There, his right hand almost useless from a previous injury, he had attempted to hold off three terrorists while detaining another as a hostage. Though ultimately successful, the vicar had lost his life when he strove to mediate the opposing factions. His effort had failed, leaving Bodie with another death to bury behind his walls.

Speaking almost to himself, Bodie whispered, "They weren't nobodies. They killed innocent people."

"Nobody is innocent," Schranz smugly declared. "But you will never understand that."

"That's what your friend Myer said, too," observed Bodie. "You're both right. I'll never understand what a nine-month-old baby did to be sentenced to death."

Wind blew snow flakes against the remorseless face. "She was a witness. That was enough."

"How sad that a child who couldn't even talk could instill such fear in a heavily armed man," said Bodie, his gun pointed unwaveringly at the shadowy figure.

One hand braced against the tree for balance, Schranz straightened his stance. "I do not kill out of fear. I kill from necessity."

"One false move," warned Bodie, alert to a possible attack, "and I may find it necessary to kill you."

"Go ahead," Schranz offered, opening his arms in invitation. "Shoot me! At least it will be a quicker death than that which faces you."

As the blizzard grew in fury, the temperature dropped. The thin glove covering the hand that held the gun did little to protect the appendage. Bodie knew they would need shelter soon if they hoped to survive; something more than the branches of a tree could offer. Waving his gun at the former fugitive, he ordered, "Let's go. You're not getting off that easy."

"Where the hell are we going to go?" Schranz demanded, reluctantly pushing away from the tree.

"Back to the railroad tracks," Bodie decided, his eyes following the rapidly disappearing trail. "Maybe we can flag down a train."

Even as he took a step forward, Schranz noted, "You're crazy."

"You know what they say about mad dogs and Englishman," Bodie calmly replied. "That about sums us up . . . wouldn't you agree?"

* * * *

The train moved slowly. Every eye on board scanned the landscape for any sign of human habitation. Doyle's own eyes burned, partially from lack of sleep, but mostly because he was afraid to look away or to even blink. That small act could cost his partner his life.

Realizing a helicopter could inadvertently cover a trail leading to the missing men, the rescue team had opted to close the railway line between Voss and Myrdal. In a specially-equipped car they followed the same route Bodie had taken the day before.

Her voice low, Maureen observed, "That storm's moving in faster than we predicted."

"I know." Doyle's concern was evident on his face and in his voice. "If we don't find some tracks soon, we may never find them."

"Is your partner as optimistic as you are?" asked the young woman, the laughter in her voice taking the sting out of the question.

Smiling slightly, Doyle shook his head. "No self-respecting storm would have the nerve to try to keep Bodie from performing his duty."

"He sounds formidable," Maureen conjectured, pouring two cups of coffee from a thermos at her elbow.

Gratefully accepting one of the cups, Doyle shook his head. "Bodie's not as formidable as he'd like everyone to think. Children and animals love him, and so do the birds," the curly-haired man ruefully finished.

Her face lighting up, Maureen said, "I like birds, too. I have a papegoye. I believe you call them budgies."

Enjoying the conversation more than he knew he should, Doyle smiled and shook his head. "When an English man talks about birds he's usually talking about women. In Bodie's case you can make that always."

Maureen quickly took a sip of her coffee and ducked her head, trying to hide the blush reddening her cheeks. "I see," she softly acknowledged.

"Not as well as you will when you finally get to meet Bodie," explained Doyle.

His attention returning to the snowy ground lining the tracks, Doyle slowly sipped the hot coffee. It wasn't often that he had to explain his partner to someone. Bodie's reputation generally preceded him. Yet it was a fame Doyle knew the younger man often didn't deserve. Few people knew the real Bodie. Strangely, the only person who probably did understand the dark-haired man was not his partner, but his boss. Bodie and Cowley had a relationship that baffled those who observed it, while at the same time making them ache with envy.

"I see something."

The announcement pulled at Doyle. His heart beat faster as he turned to face Kjell Jakobsen, the leader of the rescue team. The words had barely left the man's lips when the train slowed to a stop.

The seven men and three women of the team disembarked, followed closely by Doyle and Strom. A few feet back, they found the fading impressions of two sets of footprints.

"I'd say both men are hurt, though not badly," said Kjell bending down to inspect the tracks. Regaining his feet, he headed back to the specially-equipped train. "We'd better hurry before the snow covers the trail."

For the first time, Doyle noticed snow was falling lightly on his face. It didn't appear heavy enough to cause Jakobsen's obvious concern. But, grateful for anything that would help him find his partner sooner, Doyle asked, "What do you want me to carry?"

Glancing first at the Englishman then at his Norwegian colleague, Jakobsen shook his head. "You cannot come. We have the experience. We will find them."

"Do you have experience dealing with terrorists?" Doyle angrily demanded. "One of the men you seek could kill you and your entire team before you even know he's there."

"But we are here to save his life," Jakobsen protested.

Zipping up her coat in preparation for their trek, Maureen disclosed, "That will not matter to him."

Even as the snow began to fall more heavily, Doyle declared, "We're coming."

Without glancing back to be certain the others were following, Doyle led the way into the trees. What he had said was true. His expertise would be vital in the initial part of the journey. Only after Schranz was located and disarmed would the rescue team's knowledge be needed. It was probably the first time the team had ever searched for a man who didn't necessarily want to be found.

Cold snow found its way under his collar, making Doyle hunch his shoulders while giving silent appreciation for the down jacket the authorities had loaned him. With the darkness and the snow starting to obscure the trail, he tried to remember how Bodie had been dressed when he left England. Obviously, he had survived one night against the elements. Could he survive a second? Though he was sure it would be useless and perhaps even dangerous, Doyle cupped his mouth with his gloved hands and shouted, "Bodie?"

Even as he listened for a reply, Doyle moved away from his position. If Schranz was close enough to fire on him, the CI5 agent would not make it easy for him. Varying his speed and timing, he continued to call for his errant partner.

His voice was hoarse and raw before Doyle finally thought he heard a response to his call. The trail had become almost non-existent, forcing the team to make a painful decision. Should they continue without a clear path or turn back and wait for the weather to clear? It was not a decision the Englishman was debating. Doyle had no intention of stopping until he found Bodie and Schranz.

Pulling off his hat, Doyle called again, "Bodie?" 

This time the response was more dramatic. Doyle instinctively dropped to the ground as the unmistakable sound of a bullet whipped through the trees. Rising to his feet, he absently brushed the snow off his clothes with one hand, while he pulled his gun with the other. Motioning the rescue team to stay where they were, he and Strom cautiously moved toward the area where the bullet had originated.

Doyle practically tripped over his partner before he saw him. Almost covered with snow, Bodie had sunk to his knees, but his gun never wavered from the prostrate figure in front of him.

As Strom inspected the terrorist for weapons, Doyle gently disarmed his partner, careful not to break the frozen fingers. "It's all right, Bodie. It's over, we'll take it from here."

"I'm glad," Bodie agreeably acknowledged. "I'm so tired."

"I know you are," soothed Doyle.

The rescue team moved in, each doing their assigned task. No words were necessary as they efficiently administered aid to the injured men. Doyle was grateful for their businesslike manner, even as he wished he could have a few minutes alone with his friend. The image that had plagued him throughout their search had not materialized. The mental pictures he had taken in the farmhouse had faded slightly, replaced by a new horror his imagination had devised. But there wouldn't be a picture of Bodie without a face in his photograph album. For a while, that negative would be mercifully blank.

* * * *

The smells were all too familiar as he walked slowly down the long corridor, reflecting on the many hospitals he had entered throughout the world. Whether it was as a visitor or a patient, the odors were the same. Many of the modern hospital had tried to overpower the stench with ventilation or perfumed air. While that sometimes worked with blood and ether, nothing could disguise the smell of fear. Almost everyone who walked through the hospital doors was anxious about a friend or loved one, and even the most routine procedure brought a measure of concern to the patient.

Pausing outside the door leading to a private room, Doyle buried his own fear behind a wall of joviality. He wasn't as good as his partner at hiding his feelings, but, unfortunately, he was getting better. Forcing a smile to his lips, he pushed through the swinging door. "Good morning, Sunshine. Have you been behaving yourself?"

"Don't have much choice, do I?" Bodie disgustedly noted, gingerly lifting his plastered right arm and bandaged left hand.

His eyes drawn to the injured appendages, Doyle let his gaze travel down the solid torso. The wrap holding the cracked ribs in place was clearly visible beneath the worn hospital gown. Small patches of frostbitten skin dotted the bare legs. For the first time since they had found Bodie and his prisoner two days before, Doyle could look at the bandaged feet. Bodie had come perilously close to losing his left foot and several toes on his right. Forcing himself not to dwell on what could've been, Doyle belatedly responded to his partner's disgusted observation, "At least Cowley won't find an irate Viking father in his office fighting for his daughter's honor."

"Not much chance of that, mate," Bodie morosely agreed. "Right now I'd be lucky to beat a snail in a foot race."

The truth of the statement hit Doyle hard, and he allowed his cheerful facade to slip as he bitterly addressed his partner. "Jumping off that train in the middle of the Norwegian wilderness has to be one of the stupidest stunts you've ever pulled. Why'd you do it?"

"I couldn't let it happen again," Bodie quietly admitted.

Doyle knew what "it" was. Even the Dutch and Norwegian officers who had not been in that farmhouse had felt the same. "Schranz will never spill another child's blood again," he reflectively whispered.

His own near demise already buried behind his walls, Bodie thoughtfully asked, "In your own way are you telling me that Schranz didn't make it?"

"Not all of him." Sitting in a chair next to the bed, Doyle clarified, "He lost his right arm up to his elbow, and his left hand to frostbite."

"That's one way to get rid of the blood staining your hands. In many Arab countries that wouldn't be considered punishment enough," a phlegmatic Bodie observed.

Focusing his eyes on a spot along the far wall, Doyle confessed, "To be truthful, when we found you, and I saw Schranz laying on the ground, I thought you'd taken the law into your own hands and killed him."

"I was about to when I heard your call." There was no emotion in the voice. No clues showing how deeply Bodie's despair had affected him at the time. "I was tired. I knew I couldn't go on any further. I wasn't willing to take a chance Schranz could. Even unarmed, he was a dangerous man."

The door swung open interrupting a conversation Doyle wasn't sure he wanted to continue. There were depths to his partner that he was often too intimidated to probe. While he wanted to tear down the walls that Bodie had built around his emotions, Doyle was honest enough to admit he was scared of what he might find.

His white coat immaculate, Dr. Pedersen relentlessly advanced on his patient, his eyes on the medical file in his hand. "Good morning, Mr. Bodie. I must say you've made remarkable progress since we first saw you. I wish all my patients were so resilient."

"When do I get to go home?" Bodie demanded, not even trying to appear pleasant.

Glancing up from his report, Pedersen faltered as his eyes met the implacable facade of his patient. Swallowing his nervousness, he said, "If nothing goes wrong, we should have you out of here day after tomorrow."

"Nothing will go wrong," Bodie instructed, never breaking eye contact with the doctor.

Sweat beading his brow, Pedersen shook his head. "Of course not. Everything will be fine, Mr. Bodie."

As he watched the exchange, Doyle smiled. Sitting back in his chair, he allowed himself to relax for the first time since setting foot in the Trimley St. Mary farmhouse. A small part of the horror he had witnessed would always be with him; it distorted his dreams, making sleep difficult. But he would get past it, just as he had all the other hideous occurrences he had encountered as a CI5 agent. Because, so far, he had been able to arrest the most terrifying incident of all - Bodie's death.

* * * *

Doyle quickly exited the car. Running around the bonnet, he opened the passenger door and put out a hand to assist his partner.

Ignoring the offered support, Bodie cautiously climbed from the car under his own power. "I'm not an invalid, Ray."

"With a broken right arm, three broken ribs, frostbite on both hands and feet, you fit the description close enough for me, mate," Doyle solicitously outlined.

His bandaged feet encased in oversized slippers, Bodie slowly followed his partner into CI5 headquarters. "That Norwegian doctor said it wasn't a very severe case of frostbite. The bandages are only a precaution. I'll probably be able to take them off in a week."

"You see what the doc here says first," Doyle warned, holding the door to the lift so his laggard partner could enter. "I'm not sure I trust that Norwegian doctor. He was too easy to intimidate. I don't think he should've released you from hospital yet."

Smiling indulgently, Bodie shook his head. "That doctor has probably seen more cases of frostbite in one winter than our doctor does in a lifetime."

"I'll bet Cowley makes you see the doc," Doyle persisted.

"Only to make sure the other doctor's estimate for my return to duty is correct," Bodie observed.

Despite his partner's obvious annoyance, Doyle continued to anxiously hover beside the injured man. It was true Bodie's wounds weren't that severe, however, the nightmares invading Doyle's sleep were. Every night Bodie had been hospitalized, Doyle had snuck into the room to gaze at his sleeping partner's face. It was the only way to prove the nightmare had been exactly what it was. That a dum-dum had not destroyed the handsome face. Logically, Doyle knew the dreams were probably due to his own exhaustion and fear, but knowing the cause didn't diminish its effect.

"Earth to Doyle, come in."

Bodie's persistent appeal forced its way into Doyle's thoughts. Gently pushing away the hand that was pulling on his arm, he snapped, "As much as I'd like to get away from some people, I haven't gone anywhere, so stop pulling on me."

"Fine with me, mate," Bodie calmly replied, stepping off the lift. "You can go up and down as much as you like."

His cheeks flushed with embarrassment, Doyle slipped through the slowly closing doors, the rubber safeguards nipping at his heels. Without looking at his partner, he crossed to Betty's desk. "Would you tell the Cow we're here, Love?"

"Mr. Cowley," emphasized Betty, "is expecting you."

Suddenly realizing what he had said, Doyle's cheeks blushed a brighter red. Striding to the door, he knocked once before entering. His advance faltered when a little ball of fur flashed out from under the desk and stood in front of him growling its displeasure. "What the bloody hell . . .?"

Hearing the alarm in Doyle's voice, Bodie pushed past his partner. "What's the matter?"

Before Doyle could respond, the fur launched itself at the dark-haired man, but instead of growling, it was now whimpering with joy. Jumping on the tailored pants, Jem was practically doing somersaults in her excitement. Stopping once to sniff at the bandaged feet, she continued her assault until a wrapped hand lifted her into the crook of a plastered arm. Out of the corner of his eyes, Doyle disgustedly saw an indulgent look flash across his superior's face. While Bodie tried to calm the little puppy, Doyle announced, "4.5 and 3.7 reporting as ordered, sir."

"Relax, 4.5," Cowley advised. "After the job you both just did, I think you deserve it."

Not certain if he was hearing correctly, Doyle asked, "Are you putting us on leave, sir?"

"Two weeks," explained Cowley rising from his chair. "Bodie's on sick leave and since it's obvious he won't be able to care for a small puppy in his condition, I've also put you on leave 4.5."

Though he had hoped to get a holiday to care for his partner, Doyle protested when he realized that it was the puppy he was expected to baby-sit. "But she doesn't even like me."

"She'll get used to you," Cowley nonchalantly advised.

A bandaged finger gently scratching behind a small ear, Bodie hesitantly asked, "Do you think it's wise for someone in my line of work to have a dog, sir?"

"I don't think you have a choice, 3.7," Cowley pointed out. "Jem's already decided for both of you."

"Jem?" inquired Bodie.

"Jemina was the little girl who when she was good, she was very, very good. But when she was bad, she was very, very bad," Cowley explained, his gaze dropping to the leg of his antique desk.

His eyes following his superior's, Bodie noted the splinters of chewed wood. "It's a good name, sir," he anxiously agreed.

"I thought so," Cowley quietly asserted. Sitting back in his chair, he consulted a file lying in the middle of his desk. "You might be interested to know that the Norwegian government has agreed to extradite Schranz. He'll be arriving in England about the time you're due back on duty."

"Next destination . . . the moors," Doyle prophesied.

"But for how long?" Bodie dubiously inquired. "Who will be a hostage for his freedom? Was it all worth it?"

Remembering the interrupted conversation they'd had in Bodie's hospital room, Doyle demanded, "Are you saying we should've killed him when we had the chance?" 

Bodie's response was nonverbal. His eyes locked with his partner's. In their blue depths, Doyle saw a reflection of blood-splattered toys and a pink crib with Raggedy Ann dolls stenciled upon it - and he knew the answer to his question.

"I believe you know the officers accompanying Schranz," Cowley continued, ignoring the byplay in front of him. "Maureen Strom and Niels Johan."

Though it appeared as though Cowley had not overheard their exchange, Doyle knew better. His superior had written CI5's brief and while he often bent the rules, he never broke them. He used his brains and his position to trap his opponents playing their own game. Such had been the case with Ramos and Ramero. Both men died at the hands of government officials following the laws of their countries. Cowley would not have condoned cold-blooded murder, but he had been in that farmhouse - he wouldn't have condemned it either.

"It'll be good to see Maureen again," said Bodie, smiling reminiscently.

Noting the lascivious look on his partner's face, Doyle protested, "I saw her first."

"She doesn't look like the type of girl to settle for anything but the best," observed Bodie."

"And that's supposed to be you?" Doyle mockingly suggested.

Before Bodie could reply, Cowley interrupted, "The plane arrives at 13:30 hours on Wednesday in a fortnight. The flight is BA260. I'll expect you'll both be there, so I won't assign anyone else to that detail. Now be on your way, Lads, some of us have work to do."

Doyle unhappily preceded his partner out the door. Previously, he had been eager to assist his impaired friend, but the bundle of fur scratching curiously at the plaster-encased arm had dimmed his enthusiasm. Closing the door behind them, he disgustedly realized this leave was not going to be what he had anticipated.

"Bodie," Betty called, stopping their exit. Reaching into a drawer, the secretary pulled out a brown paper bag. Holding it out to the dark-haired agent, she explained, "Here are some treats Jem is particularly fond of."

His arms full of puppy and plaster, Bodie awkwardly tried to take the offering as he graciously accepted the gift. "Thanks, Betty."

Doyle ignored his friend's failed attempts to take the bag as long as he could before unhappily snatching the package out of the secretary's hand. "I've got it."

"Ta, mate," Bodie acknowledged, trying hard not to smile.

Bemoaning the fact that Bodie's puppy was now, for all intents and purposes, his as well, Doyle walked briskly down the hall. He knew he would get stuck cleaning up the messes. By the time the bandages came off, she would already be housebroken.

"Bodie!"

McCabe's voice echoed down the empty corridor. Though he stopped his advance, Doyle obstinately refused to turn and face his colleague.

"Here's Jem's lead," McCabe offered. "Take my word for it, it'll get a lot of use."

Without turning, Doyle stuck out his hand to take the lead. While he might have to be a beast of burden, he wasn't going to act happy about it.

They had taken only a few steps when Murphy's call halted their progress once again. "Bodie! Here's Jem's food. We can't have the poor little thing going hungry," the tall agent admonished, scratching the puppy behind the ear. "We just started to wean her, so there's formula and a bottle, as well as dry food."

As the body wiggled in delight, the distinctive sound of running footsteps drew the humans' attention. Rounding the corner at a dangerous speed, Susan gasped, "Bodie!"

"Slow down, Love," warned Bodie. Glancing down at his bandaged feet, he smiled. "I'm not hard to catch these days."

Her words punctuated by gasping breaths, Susan hit Murphy on the shoulder. "This great Irish lout forgot to bring the dishes. The pink one is for food and the blue is for water."

Throwing the leash around his neck as if it were a tie, Doyle dolefully took the food and dishes as his partner expressed his gratitude. Even as he pensively turned to continue their exit, a summons stopped him.

"Bodie!" A sweater stretched seductively across her more than ample bosom, Vanessa, a computer operator who had firmly rebuffed their advances since her employment six months before, rushed to Bodie's side. "I loved walking Jem on my breaks and lunch hour, we all did. Any time she needs a walk just call. My number is Kensington 5631."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Doyle glanced down at the tiny object causing all the fuss. As their eyes met, the puppy growled. Sighing lightly, Doyle nodded. "My sentiments exactly, mate."


End file.
